


Tangible Proof

by bumblingbabe



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Despicable Rich Kid Behavior, Dib's In His Thirties, Earth Boys Are Easy, First Meetings, Language Barrier, Membrane Family Fluff, Other, Slow Burn, and still just s o fucking dumb, it's MY quarantine I get to put out the hallmark movie vibes, yes this is a romcom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23747518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblingbabe/pseuds/bumblingbabe
Summary: Joining the FBI had seemed like the right move for Dib— Investigating is his absolute jam. After he takes yet another, not strictly on the books, investigating sesh a little too far, threats of losing his title force him out of the big city and into bumfuck nowhere. In this small town’s painfully dull division, paranormal talk of any kind will result in Dib’s immediate termination. Which wouldn’t be too big of a problem, if he wasn’t certain that his new, feral neighbor is an alien keen on world domination.
Relationships: Dib/Zim (Invader Zim)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	Tangible Proof

**Author's Note:**

> The only research I did on the inner workings of the FBI was watching three episodes of the HBO McMillions documentary, so everyone please be real cool and pretend this makes sense okay thanks.

Dib has been involuntarily committed to mental health facilities in the past. This isn’t his first diagnosis dodging rodeo. He knows both of the big tricks to wriggling out of these rat traps without the ball and chain of a mandatory prescription trailing his escape— Be pleasant and lie. 

A nursing assistant approaches the couch where he’s sitting with his hands folded politely in his lap. She smiles, looking only vaguely tired as opposed to the all consuming exhaustion that weighs on most occupants of the building. “Can I get you anything for breakfast this morning? Are you thirsty?”

He smiles back, briefly and with minimal teeth. “No. Thank you.” 

“Okay, if you’re sure.” 

She moves on to the other side of the room, where the majority of the nonviolent patients are grouped together. Dib separating himself from the others is another trick, as in most of these doctors’ conclusion hopping brains, crazy attracts crazy. Dib? Attracts nothing. Totally deliberately, of course, for sure, duh. The clear division between him and the general population is as purposeful a move as the self denial of some mediocre, pulpy OJ even though he is _parched_. 

All according to plan.

The double doors to the recreation room both burst open obnoxiously, drawing everyone’s attention to the visibly angry, suspiciously well dressed man stalking inside. Dib winces as their gazes meet, the obvious agent’s eyes narrowing further as he starts heading straight for him. One of the doors swing open again, much less dramatically this time around. Gaz enters, staring blankly at the enraged man’s back as she lazily follows six paces behind. 

Her appearances have become commonplace anytime he gets a visit from the Bureau. He hasn’t the faintest idea on how she gets clued in to when they’ll be around, but he knows better than to question her. The relief and comfort he feels at the sight of that familiar, perpetually glaring face is multiplied tenfold when he notices the lunchbox in her grasp. 

The agent starts snarling the second he reaches Dib, standing over him in a strategically intimidating way. “ _You—_ ”

“Gaz!” Dib exclaims with an over the top, exuberant enthusiasm that might come off as forced, but is pathetically genuine. He waves her over with wildly flailing arms. “My innocent sibling! My family, blood relative, civilian sister! How _are_ your ears?”

“Perfect.” Gaz plops down beside him on the couch, gaze not straying from the agent. “In top listening condition.”

“But as of yet unburdened by any top secret government information, would you say? Lily white and untouched by the dark truths of capitalist America’s filthy underbelly?”

“Yes. I love my flawless country.”

This agent doesn’t look nearly as stricken as the previous ones that had been sent. He must’ve been warned about their shenanigans. His anger is at least marginally reeled in, as he straightens from his former posture of leaning over Dib and struggles around drawing a deep breath. 

While he takes his little moment Dib moves to snatch the lunchbox up. The acknowledgement of his hunger for the first time in days brings out something hideous and greedy from within. Gaz side eyes him and sourly holds the bag out of reach. Dib could cry.

“I don’t,” The agent finally exhales, “give a shit about whatever’s happening right now. I’m gonna say what I've been told to say. And you can listen all you like, lady.” 

Gaz doesn’t blink.

“Ma’am.” He amends, and hurriedly moves on to face Dib, the objectively easier target. “You’ve been given weekly psychological evaluations since you were admitted.”

“Committed.” Dib corrects. He isn’t at all surprised by this. Seeing the same facility employed psychologist six days a week in the professional space of that doctor’s office is one thing. But comparing that with being locked in his private hospital room every Thursday with a different inquisitive person running each appointment paints a pretty conspicuous picture. “So how’d I do?”

The agent looks pained. Dib grins.

“How the hell are you doing it?”

“Who knows? Guess I’ve just always been a good test taker.”

“Well, I’m glad that you can laugh about this, Membrane.” The agent’s expression is fully under control now, smooth and stern. He pulls up a chair to sit directly in front of Dib, close enough for their knees to touch. Gaz snorts quietly at the inadvertently intimate image, motivating the agent to take a tiny, no-homo scooch backwards. “You’ve been here for what? Two months now? Three? We’re losing count up at head office. It’s refreshingly easy to forget about you when you’re not maiming a family of hikers in the woods.”

Guilt swiftly puts an end to Dib’s preening. Gaz responds on his behalf. “If you can’t prove that there’s anything wrong with him, why is he still here?”

The agent still doesn't dare to even look in her direction. “He’s mentally fit enough to work for us. That doesn’t mean he’s one hundred percent in the clear. We’ve spoken with the staff here and they don’t feel wholly comfortable releasing him.”

“Wait, what?” Dib had assumed the opposite was the case, with the Bureau holding him hostage here as a form of punishment, and the hospital going along with it without having any real stakes in the situation. “I don’t understand.”

The nurse from earlier comes back around, smiling that same smile, but it suddenly reads as very patronizing as she nods at Dib and hands the agent a clipboard. Dib’s mouth dries up further. Gaz groans, rubbing her face.

“No diagnosis.” The agent reads aloud, weirdly mad about it. “But you’ve been recorded as possibly having antisocial inclinations, delusions, paranoia, and a, uh... eating disorder?”

“I’m picky.” He blurts, unable to close his mouth as the information pummels his confidence down to the bleach treated tile floor. He knows the tricks, dammit. “I. _What?_ What the _fuck—_?”

“Possibly?” Gaz interrupts. “So none of this has been confirmed?”

“Well. Not yet-”

“No, it hasn’t been. And he’s been green lit to get back to work since the first week he was committed, if you’ve been telling the truth. So, _why_ is he still _here?”_

The agent’s almost as flustered as Dib now. “There is still the matter of the children he nearly _asphyxiated_. Still hospitalized, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” Gaz bites as Dib’s self worth takes another devastating blow. “Are they pressing charges or not?”

The agents grits his teeth in turn. “They appear to have been paid off.”

Dib’s blindsided for a second time this morning. He gives Gaz a wide eyed look, but she’s paying him no mind at all.

“So what you’re saying is, legally, he could’ve left at any time. And there’s nothing stopping us from walking out of this building right now. Are my stupid, civilian ears hearing that right?”

The agent slowly crosses and uncrosses his legs, reassessing the situation. His tone goes soft as he boldly gives his full attention to Gaz. “We were only considering his health. These incidents, no matter how _accidental_ or _misunderstood_ they are, are hurting people. Most of all him, if we let him get away with acting like this. Do you know why he attacked those kids, ma’am? He was convinced that they were a little family of moth men. Moth. Men. This facility is exactly where he needs to be. Don’t you want what’s best for your brother?”

There’s a tense beat of silence. Gaz’s expression, as always, is impossible to decipher, but her eventual response is flat and honest. “No.” 

* * *

“I did _not_ think they were _a little family of moth men_. That’s ridiculous. There’s only one Mothman, he’s a lone cryptid.” Dib seethes, savagely tearing open six sugar packets with his teeth. He stirs them into his coffee along with a gluttonous pour of vanilla creamer.

Gaz uses about a third the amount of sweetener he does and then ushers them over to a table by the busy cafe’s bay window. “What were you thinking?”

“Oh,” Dib has the sense to be embarrassed as he sits, “Uh, sasquatches, maybe. You know, like in those Purple Mattress commercials?” He shrugs, prematurely defensive. “It was dark— What kind of family goes hiking with their two kids on a school night? And it’s not like I barreled into their campsite and started throwing punches— I painlessly trapped them in a bag. Any bag related injuries are mostly on them for not staying put. As hikers, they should’ve known we were on a hill.”

A moment passes between them where he’s sure Gaz is regretting not putting him in the straight jacket with her own two hands. Too late now. She takes a long sip of her drink and, at a loss for anything else to do or say in response, finally surrenders the lunchbox to him.

He brutishly tears into the container, reduced to nothing more than a ravenous beast at the sight of cold pasta leftovers and a snack size bag of hot cheetos. The first few bites occur as an out of body experience where Dib is sickeningly less human than the monsters he hunts. Returning to his self is an emotional affair.

“Eating disorder bullshit.” He scoffs, mouth full and eyes strangely wet. “The food there was garbage, Gaz. Who the hell eats creamed corn? Willing consumption of creamed corn and craziness have a direct correlation. That’s probably why they serve it— Extend stays, drum up business and medical bills. That’s a full blown fucking _scheme_. Disgusting.”

“Disgusting.” She echoes as he scoops alfredo noodles out of the tupperware with his bare, red dust stained fingers and slurps. “What about their other notes?”

“Huh?” He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Dude, it’s _all_ bullshit. That place was completely morally bankrupt, inventing problems to make some big bucks off gullible chumps. Modern medicine nowadays is heartless.” He takes a desperate drink of his coffee, happily undoing all the good done to his body by the forced caffeine withdrawal at the hospital. “ _I_ have antisocial inclinations? We’re literally having a conversation right now.”

“I’m your sister.” She says pointedly, as if to insinuate that this interaction doesn’t get him any points in the argument. Is this an argument?

Dib frowns. “You’re not the only person I hang out with. I… I have a job. I get trapped in water cooler talk like at least once a month. It’s horrible and gets impossibly worse every time it happens.” Not exactly something a socialite would say. He reroutes, lowering his voice. “And I have my online forums. Not to brag, but TruthShrieker’s gotten pretty popular. We have a Discord now.”

Gaz makes a shuddering noise full of contempt. “Most of those sites are illegal for a reason, moron. They’re full of sickos, don’t you remember that one _creep—_ ”

Dib’s immediately just as annoyed as she is. “Yeah, I was fifteen and I learned my lesson. But it’s a totally different playing field now! I’m a mod.”

“Stop talking.”

He rolls his eyes, silently chugging the rest of his coffee. The first stirs of that jittery feeling he’d missed so much starts to rush through his bloodstream, just enough to tease. Maybe he should just get a refill and walk home alone to savor his freedom without Gaz’s unwelcome judgment overshadowing his celebration.

“Are you sure you didn’t get fired?”

Not a bit. “I thought you wanted me to stop talking?”

Gaz gets up and walks out of the cafe without any preamble, not even slamming the shop’s door behind her. Dib would’ve been less wary if she had. It’s a small comfort that she flips him off as she strides by the store window.

After ordering that refill and a spare, he admits that checking on his employment status is in fact the move. Dread transforms the over sweet coffee into a bitter and heavy weight on his tongue. Swallowing thickly, he pulls his previously confiscated backpack into his lap and rummages around the ghoul hunting gear in search of his cell phone.

He finds it beneath expired chocolate protein bars and a leaking bottle of bug repellent. He cringes at the sticky texture of the screen and the potent chemical smell that comes along with it. Great.

At least it’s not dead, but that's not too shocking. Back in high school he and Gaz had collaborated on a project to create an everlasting cellular battery, Willy Wonka gobstopper style. The final result didn’t need to be charged for a full four months, which they called a success. It _will_ explode at the end of that time frame, with or without a charge, and there’s no way to stop the blast or minimize the six foot circumference of devastation the explosion leaves in its wake. The phone is entirely unsalvageable afterwards, naturally, but that’s a broke bitch issue; He and Gaz have daddy’s money and innovation on their side. A designated detonation room in their house and a new phone every once in a while is a small price to pay to avoid the most minor of inconveniences. 

He unlocks the device to reveal an expected but pitifully low number of notifications. The overwhelming majority of them are video messages from his dad, who doesn’t understand the concept of texting any better than the fact that Dib never has access to his phone whenever he’s locked away in a loony bin. He definitely can’t deal with those right now.

Checking his work email is as distressing an activity as it always is. There’s mostly just the pretty standard influx of passive aggressive memos from various coworkers, with some flat out aggressive “final” warnings from his superiors peppered in between. But at the top of his inbox, sent maybe five minutes after he’d left the mental hospital, is a no subject message containing only a phone number. No falsely friendly corporate platitudes, or even a signature for that matter. Recognizing the sender's name as the head of the division, Dib understands why she hadn’t bothered.

He double fists his drinks, throwing them back one after the other like they’re glasses of hard liquor and not paper cups filled with a nine to one sugar coffee ratio. Time to mourn opportunities lost and a career path gone.

Dib wouldn’t say he loves his job. Whatsoever. But the perks are invaluable. Flashing a legitimate FBI badge if any supernatural investigation gets too hairy has gotten him out of a _lot_ of trouble. And an all access pass, if he’s creative and stealthy enough, to otherwise highly protected government databases has proven useful a number of times too. The title of special agent and the reluctant permission to treat government facilities as personal playgrounds is really all he’s interested in. The actual work is total shit.

Dib doesn’t care about taking down one of the _dozens_ of drug trafficking rings in this city alone, just to have another pop up in its place. Mass shootings are always handed to his department, too. It’s flat out depressing having to show up at a school for over half of those cases. And being months behind on the ninety percent paperwork workload comes with the territory of horrible crimes being reported every hour on the hour. Although, everyone else he works with seems to be much more caught up on that side of things, if the vitriol in those daily emails telling him to hurry the hell up are at all deserved.

If he was good at what he does (did) he’d be busy at all hours of the day and, well, have the same rotten sleeping schedule he usually has. But with justification and claps on the backs from his fellow agents, instead of the looks of utter repulsion they usually throw his way whenever he’s discovered conked out on the kitchen counter of the break room like a big ugly cat.

The reality is his, affectionately named, extracurricular activities have and likely always will be prioritized over anything else. He can admit that’s probably an apt enough reason for him to be fired. But then again, he did attend a whole fucking _training academy—_

His phone vibrates in his hand. He gives the screen a hard stare, eyebrows pulling together.

_Allow Peggle Blast to make and manage phone calls?_

_YES_ _NO_

He blinks a couple of times, not sure that he even has that app downloaded, and firmly presses ‘ _NO’._ The block of text is dismissed before immediately reappearing.

“What is happening,” He breathes out, clicking _‘NO’_ for a second time.

The notification shows right back up, now with the _‘YES’_ _and ‘NO’_ options having swapped places. Terror shoots through his body in sync with the vibrations that pulse out of his cell with every reemergence of the persistent pop up. It isn’t until Dib misclicks, granting the request, that the stubborn message vanishes at last. He slowly sets the phone down on the cafe table, screen down.

Maybe he really is losing it. He leaves his stuff unattended while he gets up to order a few more cups of coffee, to settle his nerves.

He’s still on edge when he returns to his seat with the drinks. Even more so when he flips his phone around and reveals that he’s been in call with someone for a full minute. An inadvertent noise of distress is drawn out of him before he can calm himself.

“I heard that.” The woman’s voice is tinny and nearly inaudible at the distance his tiny cell’s speaker is currently at, but the sound of it has Dib fully understanding the situation with a cold clarity. “We need to talk, agent.”

Seeing no alternative that won’t read as petulant, Dib picks up the phone. “So I’m still an agent, am I?” Okay, he can toss in a little petulance. As a treat.

“Can you think of a reason you shouldn’t be?” She challenges, actually pausing to give him the chance to respond. He keeps quiet about his most recent train wreck of thought. “Alright, then. I’d prefer to have this chat in person. Where are you?”

He wishes Gaz hadn’t left. “Around. Y’know. Out and, uh, about. We can do this over the phone, right? You did put a lot of effort into making this call happen.”

“Yes, we seem to have the wrong number on file for you. Lucky your email was right.” There’s a muffled sound on the other line that sounds like an error message. She sighs, audibly frustrated. “I’ll be frank. The purpose of the call was to trace it, but that’s not happening for reasons I can only assume are entirely your fault. Where are you?”

He’s quiet as he relishes the fact that his black market jammer was worth the hassle and haggling. If top of the line FBI technology couldn’t track him, nothing could. His phone vibrates.

_Allow Peggle Blast to access your location?_

Except maybe Peggle.

“I’m not pressing anything.” Dib defiantly informs the executive.

“That may be for the best. I’ve only been speaking with you for two minutes and I’m at my fucking limit.” She says this without her voice’s inflection ever wavering from only mildly annoyed. “You’re being relocated.” 

“I’m really not fired?” Is all he hears, taken aback. 

“No, Agent Membrane.” She confirms through another sigh. “How can we fault you for suffering a psychotic break due to your working conditions? The city is far too stressful an environment for someone as… sensitive. As you.”

“You can say disturbed. It sounds cooler.” Dib mumbles absentmindedly as he tries to process the information. “A _psychotic break_ , though? That’s a bit melodramatic.”

“It’s the story that’s gonna get you in the least amount of trouble, agent. I suggest you take the L. Your plane leaves tomorrow, I’ll be sure to send over an email with all the necessary details alongside the ticket. I think we’re done here.”

“We’re not!” Dib interjects, loud enough that some cafe patrons turn their heads. His brain’s finally caught up with the conversation enough to be concerned for his fate. “Why are— What plane ticket? Why does this— This feels like a cover up. Why are you covering for me?”

“Don’t be so paranoid.” She almost laughs; It’s too irritated a sound to really read as a laugh. “The Bureau values what you contribute to your country. We’d hate to lose you.”

“Sure.” An obvious lie, but he isn’t in any position to press. He attempts to shift his tone into something more agreeable. “Where am I being transferred?”

“New Mexico."

His eyes widen, jaw dropping as pure wonder overrides any trepidation or caution he’d been striving to exercise. _“Roswell—?”_

The executive hangs up.

* * *

Most of Dib’s belongings aren’t anywhere near the realm of gaining TSA approval, so he ends up bringing only a few bags with him to the airport. Even with just the two rolling suitcases, Gaz comes along under the guise of his wimpy, malnourished body being incapable of heavy lifting.

His plane’s been delayed for a little under an hour now. The energy between the two of them has been frosty at best since Gaz had walked out of that coffee joint yesterday, but for whatever reason she’s stuck around the waiting area with him without complaining. Or saying literally anything for that matter. She’s currently sat two chairs down from him, aiming to drown out any attempts at chatting with the deafening sounds of the brutal button bashing her Nintendo Switch has been enduring since they arrived.

Dib’s used to talking over the noise. “I wonder how hot it is in the south right now.”

Gaz’s assault on her device continues uninterrupted, “You have a weather app.”

“I guess.” Dib doesn’t trust his phone right now. “Look, I get why you’re upset.”

That’s a daring enough claim to get her to pause her game. “Do you?”

He scoots over a seat, closing the gap between them. Of course he gets it. They’ve lived together in the same house for their whole lives- If you don’t count all of Dib’s mental hospitalization stints, or Gaz’s three month adventure of trying out college dorm life. An experience _almost as hellish as living with Dib_ , as she’d declared while in the middle of contradictorily moving back in. 

Him flying across the country to potentially spend the rest of his days underneath a roof that is entirely his own is a huge milestone. She has to be absolutely livid that he’s reached this point before her.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.” He keeps his tone low, to avoid humiliating her further with the chance of any passersby hearing about just how tragic her situation is. “So what? You’re thirty two and still live at dad’s house. Big whoop. Just because your life journey is different, doesn’t mean that you’re lost-”

She cracks his skull with the Switch.

“ _Ow!_ What the _hell_ , Gaz—?!” 

She repeats the action, guiltless. “I hope you die out there.”

“Well I can’t fucking do that if you murder me in an airport,” He hisses, reinstating the buffer of a chair in between them while cradling his head.

“New Mexico.” Gaz says after a moment, as if no violent outburst had occurred.

“Yup.”

“Roswell?”

“No.” He answers, bitterly. “And not Albuquerque either. I’ve never even heard of this place— I don’t know what need there could be for a field office in the middle of nowhere.”

“Somewhere to send the crazies.” Gaz suggests, very kindly.

“Ha ha.” Dib glares at the _‘DELAYED’_ message by his flight flashing red on the giant monitor they’re waiting in front of, willing it to change. It doesn’t. “As long as they’re not taking my badge, I couldn’t care less.”

Gaz slips her game into her bag, sneering. “You don’t even like this job.”

“I like it fine.” He says, his tone flat and unconvincing enough to make Gaz snort. His spine straightens at the sound. “Well, why else would I be here right now? Huh?”

She looks over at him like he’s an idiot, how she always does. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

Which, he can admit, is a fair assumption. He’s had barely a full day to consider what potentially malicious motivations the Bureau could have for sending him away. The idea that he’s being shipped off to the desert to be stranded out there would not be a paranoid thought. It would be more so fueled by the awareness Dib has that he is not well liked by either his peers or higher ups. This has been a constant throughout his life, so he knows the exact kind of cruel measures that can be carried out to express this specific hive mind mentality brand of hatred.

But _that’s_ the worst case scenario, and it’s supremely unlikely. “Of course I did! I think everything through- All the way, all the time! You don’t need to be such a _downer—_ This is. Fun. Exciting.”

Her stare intensifies. 

Dib breaks the eye contact just in time to watch the digital _‘DELAYED’_ label transform into a merciful _‘NOW BOARDING’_ message. With a jolt of desperate energy supplied by the opportunity to seamlessly escape this discussion, he jumps into a standing position. He’s preparing to pull his luggage in the direction of the gate before the airport’s intercoms even have the chance to make the formal announcement.

“Well! That’s me! It’s been real.” He says with rushed sincerity, fleeing immediately.

Gaz is already on her feet, taking advantage of their similarly gangly statures to perfectly keep pace with him. He’s briefly worried that she might do something horrible to prevent him from getting on the plane— Like break his leg or eat his ticket, maybe. He holds the thick slip of paper protectively where it’s jammed in his coat’s pocket, just to be safe.

“What do you want me to do with all of your shady, nerd shit?” She asks, tone aggressive as he kicks the speed of his stride up a notch, nearly running at this point.

“Uh, ship it to me I guess. Discreetly.”

“No way.” The platform heels of her boots are clicking impossibly fast against the worn, hard floors, but she doesn’t sound anywhere close to being out of breath. Dib’s, pathetically, already panting. “I’ll bring it over myself.”

He blanches. The thought of Gaz entering this new chapter of his life so early on is jarring and a little upsetting. Mainly because while he has no clue why she’d want to in the first place, there’s no doubt in his mind that her private reasonings are ill natured at best. “If you don’t wanna mail it, I’ll hire some movers. It’s like a twenty four drive—”

“Good. I’m doing it for the thrill of the road trip, not your stupid bitch ass.”

The gate comes into view. A staff member is standing at a small podium, checking a handful of other passenger’s boarding passes before giving them the go ahead to enter the doorway. Dib gets his ticket ready, still careful to keep it as far from his sister’s grasp as possible.

“I’ll even use your gross van.” Gaz says when he doesn’t respond.

Dib slows down slightly, scowling. “What makes you think I want you driving my car?”

She scowls back, much more effectively. “It’s either me or some greasy stranger. That van’s seen enough _grease_.” She emphasizes her point with a tug at a strand of his hair, sharp enough that he wouldn’t be surprised to find a bald spot later.

He yelps, leaping away from her. “Fine!”

They’ve reached the podium. Dib thrusts the pass at the woman behind it with an urgency that isn’t at all happily received. He’s lucky enough to be waved in without her calling security on suspicion of his frantic, unstable vibe alone.

Dib chances a look over his shoulder as he dashes towards the plane, to make sure Gaz isn’t coming along to potentially hijack the flight and push him out of it once they’re six miles up in the air. She appears to have ended her pursuit, keeping her distance and looking for all the world like just another sad sibling seeing her brother off. Caught off guard at the sight, he stops and turns fully around to face her.

Gaz’s expression hardens instantly. “Did you tell dad?”

He turns right back around and leaves the state without answering.

* * *

Dib should’ve at least tried to sleep at some point during the four, turned five, hours it took to drive from the Albuquerque International Sunport to the address the Bureau had given him. He normally would have just naturally nodded off, as riding in the back of a moving car is one of the few insomnia remedies he’s found that work for him. But he wasn’t about to fall asleep in a strangers car— Never mind three different strangers’ cars.

Whatever car that was meant to be set up for him until he could transport his own, not at all greasy, van wasn’t where the executive had said it would be. Any calls he’d made to her, or anyone else at his old office to ask about where it could’ve been misplaced went straight to voicemail. It wasn’t great to learn that one of the reason’s that woman had done the _most_ to get his phone number was to properly black list it. He hadn’t been blocked by the FBI since he was fourteen and it brought back some unwanted feelings of potent, hot shame that are still lingering presently.

The Rent-A-Car across the street from the airport didn’t have anything available, so that had left Dib with very few, unappealing options. Those being, a taxi or an Uber. He went with a taxi at first, feeling old for doing so, but not wanting to risk getting trapped in close quarters with a bright futured, chatty _youth_ when his own future was so uncertain. This was arguably his first mistake. 

While the driver was nowhere near youthful or chatty, she did have a whole ass gun just chilling in the passenger seat, slipping and sliding around anytime they made a turn or stopped too fast. Dib was so shocked and tense at the sight of it’s liberated movements, he could only look on in silent, open mouth horror. He was sure he might die when they’d hit a pothole straight on. Then he was absolutely certain he would, when the cab driver’s radio station of choice had fizzled out into ear piercing static and she’d quickly pulled over on the side of the road after less than an hour of driving.

“That’s it.” She’d said. Dib had left in a hurry, not questioning it.

In the middle of nowhere, and in the middle of the night, he’d had little choice but to use a ride hailing app. The next driver wasn’t quite as jaded, or unpleasant in any way, really. She’d just gotten them miserably, hideously lost. There were many apologies in the three hour time frame he’d spent inside her truck. That, along with deadpan GPS voice guided directions cutting in and out and, at one memorable point, telling them to drive directly into a lake that was located in Ontario, Canada. He’d been the one to call it quits that time around. She’d left him, remorsefully, at a closed Dunkin’ Donuts.

Tired, _so_ tired, he mourned the loss of the frappuccino that could’ve been and made sure to do things right this time. He looked up the town he’d be staying in and called the taxi service closest to the address he was heading towards. Not an easy task, as his phone had been inconveniently glitchy for what he assumed were Peggle hack related reasons. Nevertheless, they sent someone to pick him up.

He’s still sitting in the backseat of this dude’s cab. They’ve been driving in blackout darkness for upwards of an hour at this point, so he couldn’t be too far now. He hopes, at least. He’d ask, if the guy would shut up long enough for him to worm the question in.

“And the wife, y’know, hates the odd hours of the job. Drives me nuts with her worrying, but what can I tell her? Go fuck yourself? Because, that’s. Well, that’s what I’ve been telling her.”

Dib goes back to tuning out the yammering, staring out of the window in search of any signs of life. There hasn’t been much of anything to find for a long while now. He gives up, resting his eyes and leaning his forehead against the cool glass he’d just been looking through. 

It’s three am. He was too busy packing yesterday to get around to sleeping. A late night like this one right after an all nighter would be a pretty typical occurrence for him, but it’s a big shift from his strategically perfect eight hours every night at the mental facility. And he has to think about being at the new field office in the morning. Making that good first impression is vital to not ostracizing himself as a freak boy right off the bat.

The car stops. Dib struggles to open his eyes, but his efforts pay off. As dark as it is, he can still make out that the taxi’s parked in front of a two story home. One with a large enough front yard that he wonders for a moment if they’re one street off, but the concrete driveway starts at this road and goes _all_ the way back.

Dib hands the driver a few bills, likely overpaying as he can’t bring himself to tune back into the man’s voice for even essential information, and gets out of the cab, limbs heavy and movements sluggish. The second he’s removed his bags from the back and closed the trunk, the idling car mosey’s off and leaves him to his own devices. 

He suddenly feels more alone than he can remember being in his entire life. Peering down the sparsely placed, wildly flickering lamp lit street, he _thinks_ he can make out other houses, but can’t be sure at this hour. If they’re there though, it’s unfortunately at a distance too great to be able to hear him if he were to scream. So, not really a comfort either way.

As he starts heading up the driveway with his two rolling suitcases trailing him, he can see that the yard isn't as close to that plush green suburbia wet dream as it is to just more dry, desert terrain. It makes sense that grass wouldn’t last out here in such extreme heat. Dib’s been sweating for five straight hours and the sun hasn’t even been up, he’s not sure he has what it takes to survive an afternoon in this place.

The front porch creaks and bends under the weight of him and his luggage, enough to be a problem, but he refuses to think about that or anything else right now. He’s relieved that the key to the house is at least where the executive had told him, under the empty flower pot beside the door. He unlocks the door and throws his things and himself inside, locking the entry back up behind him and leaving his bags in the foyer. He moves deeper into the unnervingly dark house hunting for some sort of soft place to land.

The house is furnished, as the email had said it would be, so Dib has the luxury of discovering the living room and immediately sprawling out on the fully set up vinyl couch in that living room. He’ll be asleep in under a minute, no question.

In less time than that, there’s the raucous sound of a catastrophic, screeching crash. Followed by a blink of explosive light bleeding brightly into the house’s windows.

Dib shoots up and off the couch, heart hammering viciously. Mostly because of the adrenaline the disturbance is causing to rapidly course through him, but in smaller part due to the senseless outrage he can’t help but feel at being denied sleep. He isn’t tired at all when he realizes how close the proximity of the incident must be to be _that_ loud.

He has enough energy to run to the front door, rushing outside to get a good look at what could’ve possibly created such an atrocious noise. But there’s no obvious perpetrator to be found. The only visible evidence that anything has happened at all is the scorched _crater_ in the middle of Dib’s expansive front lawn.

“Holy moly.” He breathes, lamely.

“ _Holy moly!_ ” Someone echoes, sounding distant and, dare he hope, inhuman.

Dib startles violently, fumbling to get his phone out of his pocket and open the camera app. The device is still glitching horrendously, but he only has the patience to press record and hope for the best.

He takes hurried steps off of his groaning porch and towards the crater. “Hello?”

There’s no response. He’s close enough to the impact site to see sparks of electricity around it. Not really shooting out, but moving in semi spherical waves that start out deep within the crater and then loop around the air above it, like a jump rope with voltage. Dib wonders if it’s to protect something within the hole, or if it’s not an airborne spark at all. It could be on the surface of something he just can’t see.

He’s considering giving the area a poke, weighing the pros and cons of potentially getting tased, definitely about to go for it, when that distorted voice returns. 

“ _Hello!”_ It still sounds distant, but that distance is now directly behind him.

Dib whirls around. He’s horrified to see that there’s something small and glowing on his front porch. More words leave the thing, but it’s nothing English or any other language he can recall existing in the world. 

It’s getting more excited, from what Dib can tell- It’s positively _squealing_. The glow emanating from it starts flashing, rave like, from blue to red and back again. The creature’s noises are getting so increasingly grating and animated, Dib starts feeling unsafe. He takes a step back, fearing the thing might blow up.

Not the case. What it does do is turn fully red and go spine chillingly quiet after witnessing Dib’s slight movement. Dib makes sure to now stay very still, hands shaking around his phone and mouth going dry. His effort to deescalate whatever the hell is happening right now goes unappreciated, as the thing charges at full speed in his direction.

Dib chokes, taking a few more frantic steps backwards but stupidly not yet thinking to turn his back and run. “What the _fuck?!_ ”

 _“FUCK!”_ It repeats in a deeper but equally singsong voice, leaping into the air. Where it promptly falls from, hitting the ground hard. The collision is anticlimactic and sounds weirdly similar to the rattling of a bunch of empty tin cans.

The creature stops glowing. Stops doing much of anything, really.

Dib holds his breath, gaze alternating frenetically between the corpse and the crater that have both made a home here on his lawn not two minutes after he’d moved in. He slowly ends the recording.

**Author's Note:**

> [x](https://twitter.com/awesomonster/status/1081820267834273798?lang=en) I clearly don't have a beta, if anyone's interested you can message me on [tumblr](https://bumblingbabe.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, more coming soon :)


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